Death, Unchartered. Dorothy Van Soest

have show that OHB board and those ATA folks we won’t compromise.” He swiveled the upper part of his body toward me, saw the confused look on my face, and scoffed. “See that, she doesn’t even have a clue what I’m talking about.”

      He was right. All those acronyms—OHB? ATA?—sent a blush up my neck and onto my cheeks. Bonnie gave Frascatore a swat on his arm. “So how much did you know, big shot, when you were new?” She turned toward me. “Forget about him. He’s always like that.”

      “I signed up as a UFT member,” I said, “so of course I know the United Federation of Teachers is our union.” I made a face with my lips, an apologetic shrug. “But otherwise he’s right. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

      She slipped her hand through my arm, pulled me close and spoke in a low, confidential voice. “OHB is the Ocean Hill—Brownsville school district, where the mayor is conducting a community control experiment in an attempt to improve the quality of education in the black community. A school board made up of folks from that community is in charge of the Ocean Hill—Brownsville schools. It’s a good thing, in my opinion, for the community to have power over how its own schools are run. The ATA is the African-American Teachers Association, which supports community control. The UFT, our union, opposes it.” She pulled away from me then and turned toward Frascatore, raised her voice. “And you know, Anthony, that there would be no need for the ATA if the UFT had lived up to its mission and commitment to integration and civil rights.”

      Frascatore stuck his thumbs between the waistband of his black slacks and his belt and leaned back on his heels. “Look, when you’re in a battle, Bonnie, you rise or fall as one unit, you look out for each other. You can’t have a bunch of Muhammad Alis in the ATA marching off to the beat of another drummer to fight a different war.” He marched in place and his shoes squeaked on the gymnasium floor. Then he winked, squeezing together the lids of his left eye and holding it like that for too long to be joking or teasing. Long enough to ridicule but not long enough to be a threat.

      The seven o’clock bell rang with a deafening blast that shook the windows and reverberated through my insides. On cue, all the students in the gymnasium silenced themselves and formed lines in front of their assigned teachers.

      I smiled at my students and pointed to the sign on the wall. “Good morning! My name is Mrs. Waters, as you can see, but I would like you to call me Ms. Sylvia, okay? May I hear you say it, please?”

      “Good morning, Ms. Sylvia.”

      One voice rang out over all the others, a voice strong, sure, curious, and ready, a voice deep for a girl, for any child her age, with a resonance that welcomed me in like an open door to a mystery, offering a gift of discovery, an adventure.

      “Ms. Sylvia! Ms. Sylvia! My name is Mentayer LeMeur and I have a question about your name.” The girl’s smile was contagious.

      “Yes?”

      “Why? I mean, why does the sign say your name is Mrs. Waters, but you want us to call you Ms. Sylvia?”

      “Good question,” I say, stumped. “It’s what I prefer.” I could see the “why” expression on her face, the questions written all over it: Why do you prefer your first name? Why say Ms. instead of Mrs.? I cleared my throat and smiled at her. “And now, class,” I said, “if you would please follow me.”

      As I turned toward the exit, I saw, from the corner of my eye, a smirk on Anthony Frascatore’s face.

      THREE

      April 2006

      It’s been two months since I read the article in the New York Times about the boy’s body found in the rubble of P.S. 457. Since then I’ve spent untold hours searching for more information from every source I can think of—the computer, the public library, every New York City publication sold by our local newsstands. All the major TV channels. The news is dominated by the war in Iraq, beheadings, suicide bombings, protests against anti-immigration legislation, broken promises post—Hurricane Katrina, recent political scandals—but nothing about the dead body. The story has evaporated into thin air, disappeared without a trace, a boy forgotten.

      But not forgotten, never forgotten, by me is a boy named Markus LeMeur, and I won’t rest, I can’t, not until the body is identified and I know whether or not it’s his. There’s one source I haven’t yet tried: Markus’s sister. Mentayer would know, if anyone does.

      So often over the years, I’ve wondered why I never heard from her. So many times, too many to count, I’ve considered contacting her. Each time I lost my nerve and talked myself out of it. And as more and more time went by, it seemed best to leave it alone, let sleeping dogs lie, let the past be the past. But now I can’t do that. It’s time to call her.

      I hold the receiver in one hand and the phone number I got from operator information in the other. I almost put the phone down, but I don’t. I can’t let this go. Not until I know. My finger trembles as I push the numbers. The phone rings several times, and with each ring, my body quivers. I hold my breath. Will she answer? What will she say? What should I say?

      “Hello.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is clear, strong, confident... and unfamiliar.

      “Hello, I’m trying to reach Mentayer LeMeur.” My voice echoes in the receiver, high-pitched, almost shrill, not sounding like me at all.

      “This is Dr. LeMeur speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

      “Mentayer?” I ask, “Dr. Mentayer LeMeur?”

      “Yes?”

      “This is Sylvia Jensen. I mean, Waters. Frank and I are divorced. I took back my maiden name. Ms. Sylvia. I’m sorry. It’s been a long time, and hearing a voice from the past like this must seem strange.” I slap my forehead with the palm of my hand. I sound like an idiot.

      “Oh my.”

      A stone settles in the pit of my stomach. What do those two words mean? Is that an off-putting edge in her voice I hear, or is it the tone I feared hearing all those times I didn’t call? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? What if she doesn’t even know who I am?

      “It’s Ms. Sylvia. Do you remember me?” I hold my breath and wait for her answer.

      “Yes, of course.”

      “I guess it must be a shock to hear from me out of the blue like this.”

      “As a matter of fact, it is.”

      “I thought of calling you so many times over the years.” The words escape through my lips like a sob. There’s silence on the other end, an impenetrable, awkward silence that reduces me to babbling, trying too hard.

      “So you’re a doctor,” I say. “That’s wonderful. What is your field, if I may ask? Oh my, it’s been so long, it’s been a lifetime.”

      There’s a pause, then she says, “I have a doctorate in education.”

      “That’s fantastic, Mentayer. Congratulations. From where?” I wait for her answer with my fingers crossed. In the summer of 1968, when I took her on a tour of the Columbia University campus, she had announced, “This is where I’m going to school. I am, Ms. Sylvia. I swear I am.” How amazing it would be, I think now, if that turned out to be true.

      She pauses, this time for what seems like minutes, not seconds, and I hold my breath.

      “Columbia,” she says at last. I jump up, put my hand over my mouth. There’s another pause, and then she adds, “I got my undergraduate degree in childhood education from Hunter College, then my master’s and doctorate at Columbia University Teachers College.”

      “Good for you,” I say. “So are you a professor now? A teacher? A principal? Superintendent?”

      The prolonged silence that follows squelches my enthusiasm and lets me know she is not interested in talking to me about this, or anything else. But I can’t let her go.

      “I